Abused by a Mormon Bishop

The author's e-mail address is at the bottom of this page

"My name is Julie. At the time of this writing I am 34 years old. I was
born and raised in Utah within the Mormon church. I come from a
multi-generational family with deep roots in Mormonism. Most of my
family joined at the very beginnings of the church under Joseph Smith or
Brigham Young. My husband comes from the same kind of background (TBM)
and was raised in the same town as I. We are the only members of our
families to leave the mormon church. We have been married for almost 15
years and have a 10 year old son.

I have been "out" of the church for almost 4 years now. Sometimes (for
some unknown reason) I want to go back. There is no rhyme or reason to
this except that perhaps it's the only religious experience I've ever
known or been part of. I know in my head that Mormonism is a cult and is
abusive. I need to make sure that my heart realizes that.

There are a couple of things that I would like to share -- to GET OUT of
my mind and share with someone so that perhaps I can go on and resolve my
conflicts within the church.

The first experience began when I was 7 years old. I lived in Nephi,
Utah across from the church. My father was in jail for several DWI's and
for domestic abuse against my mother. My mother turned to the church for
financial help because she was trying to raise me, my sister, and my
brother on her own. She did have a job at a nursing home, but it wasn't
quite enough to cover food. The Bishop agreed to help her, providing
that she would clean the church. Just a few light duties: washing the
windows and vacuuming, mostly. I was in charge of vacuuming. My mom had
a key to the church and I would go over there when she was at work and
make sure that it was all vacuumed every Saturday so that it would be
ready for Sunday. (Remember, I was only 7 years old.) My experience all
started when I ran into a counselor in the bishopric. On that particular
day, I remember being very upset because I was constantly being teased by
the other kids because my dad was in jail. The counselor sat me down on
his lap in the chapel and asked me to tell him why I was crying. He was
so kind! So wonderful! This was a man of God wanting to know about ME!
I told him everything. I trusted him and was really happy for the
attention! I went home that day very happy and grateful for my new
friend.

The next time I went to the church to vacuum, the counselor in the
bishopric was already there. He asked me if things were better and I
told him they were. He asked me if the children were still bothering me,
and I told him they were, but it was okay. He took me again on his lap
as if to comfort me, but this time his hand rested inside my shorts. As
he kept talking to me (I don't even remember what about) his hand kept
snaking up toward my private area inside my shorts. He acted like this
was very natural, and although I remember feeling anxious, I did not stop
him. He touched me where no adult should touch a child that day. I went
home feeling confused this time, but I didn't really understand or
question it, because, after all -- he was a member of the bishopric.

Each time I went to the church to vacuum for my Mom, my involvement with
this man became deeper and took longer. It got to the point where I
couldn't finish my job and was always afraid my mom would be angry with
me. And she often was! After a few weeks, he was touching my genitals as
if it were second nature to him and kissing me often. He also would
touch my little girl chest and had me massaging his genitals as well. I
was extremely uncomfortable with this behavior, but he always told me
that I was "special." And that he loved me like I was his own little
girl. I should never tell, because that would break the promises we had
made to each other in the church. I remember each time going home and
taking long baths until my mother would get home from work. I was
constantly getting into trouble with her because she relied on me to
babysit my younger siblings as well. They were left to fend for
themselves during those hours. Once when I told my mom that I didn't
want to clean the church anymore, she told me that if I didn't then I
would be responsible for the church taking food away from our family.
Did I really want to do that? NO. I couldn't handle it. (I WAS ONLY
SEVEN YEARS OLD!)

Shortly after the counselor began "molesting" me, he brought a camera
with him (one of those old "Polaroid" cameras) and would take pictures of
me in several different ways of undress. Sometimes I would hold my shirt
up, sometimes my pants would be down and my bottom would be facing the
camera. Several times I was nude. I just kept thinking it MUST be okay
because come Sunday, he would be sitting up there on the stand and wink
at me once in awhile, or lead the opening remarks and after all, this was
a man called of God. If God thought that it was okay, then it must be
okay.

Then came the day that I was naked in the Sunday School classroom. I was
sitting on his lap and his pants were down around his ankles. He started
to push his penis into my vagina. I started to cry. He told me that it
wouldn't hurt if I could just relax. He made me feel as if it were my
fault that it was hurting because I didn't relax good enough. I don't
remember how often this happened, but I do know it was more than 3 times.

Then I turned 8 years old and it was time for my baptism. I was afraid.
I memorized my "Articles of Faith" like I knew that I should. (I ALWAYS
did everything that I should!) It was time for my interview with the
Bishop. I was so afraid to go into his office because I knew from what
my Primary teacher and Sunday School teacher told me what he would ask.
I knew I couldn't lie. I was so afraid that everyone would find out and
I would not be able to come to church anymore. I was afraid that the
Bishop probably already knew about what was going on because God surely
would have let him know!

After I recited my scriptures that I had to memorize and the Articles of
Faith, the Bishop started the interview. He asked me if I had been a good
girl and if I felt worthy to be baptized. It took me a few seconds to
answer. Then I told him, "No." He asked me why. I told him that I
couldn't tell him. Perhaps he assumed that I had stolen some candy from
a store or something like that because what he said next surprised me.
He said, "Julie, when you come up from the waters of baptism, you will be
as clean and pure as the white driven snow." (I remember those exact
words as if it were just yesterday.) Well, I felt pretty good about
that! It almost felt -- actually it DID feel like I had a 'do-over!'

I was baptized on a Saturday. My beloved Grandpa who lived in Payson (20
miles to the north of Nephi and where I had most of my growing up years
beginning at 8 and a half) baptized me. When I came up from the waters
of baptism, it felt like my bishop was right! I felt so wonderful and
sparkly and CLEAN! Not just on the outside, of course, but on the
inside! I didn't feel evil or bad anymore.

The next day was Sunday and back in those days they confirmed you in
church after all the babies are blessed. I felt so proud walking up the
aisle in my new dress and my long, dark hair in curls. The bishop put
out the chair and had me sit down. While he was waiting for others to
join the circle for my confirmation, he mentioned to the congregation how
proud he was of me. I glowed! This was really my day! The men began to
surround me. My grandpa (who was to give me the blessing), some of my
uncles (my mother's brother's) and a neighbor. I closed my eyes as they
put their hands on my head and my Grandpa began to speak. I opened my
eyes a little and looked up. To my horror and amazement, I saw the
counselor in the bishopric standing off to the side of me with his head
bent and his eyes closed. After seeing that, I began to cry. I think
everyone assumed that I was crying because the "spirit" was really with
me or something. But I was crying because HE was there. I never felt
any spirit or felt the holy ghost or anything I was told I would feel. I
just felt anxious and dead inside. In my little girl mind, I believed
with all of my heart that the baptism never "took." That I never
received the "gift of the Holy Ghost" or was worthy of any of the
promises that I was supposed to have as a Child of God.

As if that weren't enough, the VERY NEXT SATURDAY I went to vacuum the
church again. HE wasn't there at first, but he came in a few minutes
after I did. This time I didn't want to do anything he said, but HE
FORCED ME! For the first time, I struggled and he was mean and he HURT
me more than ever. I tried not to cry, but I couldn't help it. I wasn't
really crying so much because of what he was doing to me, but because I
felt that if this were a man of God and he could do these things to me,
then God must HATE me. It was that day that I realized that I wasn't
special or any of those things that I was taught. That God had turned
his back on me and I was on my own. I never prayed again. My "do-over"
was gone....

We moved back up to Payson soon after that and away from that church.
Away from the counselor in the Bishopric. I told myself that I would
never, ever go to the church again, ever. But sure enough, the next
Sunday I was there. But this time my Grandpa was sitting next to me,
proud as could be that his Granddaughter whom he had just a baptized a
few weeks earlier was with him. It was fast & testimony meeting that day
and he got up and bore his testimony and talked at length about how proud
he was of me and the path that I had chosen. I felt like a liar and a
cheat. I felt dishonest and dirty. I was dirt before my baptism and I
was dirt after my baptism. I wasn't worthy to be sitting there listening
to my Grandpa shower his praise on me. It took awhile, but I finally
blocked these things from my mind. But the thoughts that I wasn't worthy
and was dirty and that God hated me continued to exist in the back of my
little girl mind.

In the meantime, around the age of 9, I started being molested by 2
uncles. (My father's brothers.) It just seemed the norm at that time.
I never told anyone. Why should I? I was always threatened not to, but
since I was always obedient I wouldn't have told anyway.

Until I grew up, that is. When I was 28 years old, I told my Grandmother
(my father's mother) about the abuse that had been heaped upon her by her
sons. Her reply was, "I didn't know they had 'bothered' you, too." Just
like it was the "norm" to have that happen! Apparently she confronted
one of her sons about the abuse. His name was Russell. When I was
younger, he was especially violent. His favorite game was taking me to
the cemetery and having sex with me in front of his friends.... He
always told me he'd kill me if I EVER told and that I would die before I
was 30 anyway.

After my Grandmother confronted him about my "stories" he came to my home
while my husband was out of town. I heard a loud knock at the door. I
didn't look through the peephole. (An action that I still feel
responsible for to this day.) As soon as the door opened, he came busting
through the door. I had been cutting up some slices of cheese for my
(then) two year old son to tide him over until dinner. Russell grabbed
the knife, held it to my throat and after a lengthy struggle which
entailed him throwing my baby into his room and slamming the door.... he
beat me and raped me. I didn't tell anyone until the next day. My next
door neighbors had heard noises (we lived in an apartment complex) but
didn't report them. It wasn't until they saw my face that they put two
and two together. I let them know "kind of" what happened, but instead of
going to the police, we went to our Bishop. The police weren't called in
until the next day. (I was too ashamed....) The police just simply took
my statement and that pretty much was that. It was his word against
mine. Oh well....

My husband, son and I moved to Florida in 1990. We were not active in
the Mormon church, but were believers at that point. We were visited by
missionaries and started going back into activity in 1992. But every
time I would go into the chapel, I would have anxiety attacks. I would
look up at the Bishop and his counselors on the stand and find myself
unable to breathe. 9 times out of 10, I had to leave. I found myself
not going to church because I didn't know why I couldn't just sit still
and find comfort in the church. Wasn't I supposed to find comfort being
in God's true church? Everyone around me did, but I didn't. So, I
started studying at home instead. I read the BOM several times. I read
all the books I was supposed to. It was then that I began to find
historical discrepancies, prophecy and doctrinal discrepancies, etc....
I became confused about this. It was also at this time that I came
across the book "Miracle of Forgiveness" by Spencer W. Kimball. He had
been my favorite prophet and I was always in awe of him. But his
statement regarding chastity left me feeling like I had been kicked in
the stomach:

"Restitution for Loss of Chastity
Also far-reaching is the effect of loss of chastity. Once given or taken
or stolen it can never be regained. Even in a forced contact such as rape
or
incest, the injured one is greatly outraged. If she has not cooperated
and contributed to the foul deed, she is of course in a more favorable
position. There is no condemnation where there is no voluntary
participation. It is better to die in defending one's virtue than to live
having lost it without a struggle."

All of the past came rushing back to me with such a force that I was in
bed for days. I didn't struggle for the most part. I did cooperate in
most of the cases of my molestations. I didn't struggle much when my
uncle raped me as an adult because I feared for the life of my child.
Now I knew for sure, even as an adult, that I truly was not one of God's
favorites or even worthy to be a member of HIS True Church.

I made an appointment with my Bishop. I told him of the abuse that my
uncles did to me. (I didn't make any mention of my questions regarding
church discrepancies at this time.) He said all the right words, "It's
okay, You are forgiven..It isn't your fault, etc..." Then I showed him
what I had read in "The Miracle of Forgiveness." He told me that the
book was "outdated" for today and that those words wouldn't stand in my
situation. I was again confused. The prophet of the Lord wrote this
book, and it wouldn't stand? It was outdated? But I did find comfort in
the fact that this Bishop said he would do anything he could to help me
rid myself of my past so that I could go on with my life. He and I had a
few more sessions until I felt better about things. He did everything he
could to help me and I began to rely on his talks with me a great deal.
I felt good about my life.

But the anxiety and panic whenever I would go to church would continue.
I thought it must be God's way of telling me I didn't belong. The Bishop
would insist that perhaps I wasn't "doing my part" by reading the Book of
Mormon. That I should study it more diligently. God would give me
comfort if I TRULY seeked it... I finally told the Bishop about my
experience with the counselor in the Bishopric between the ages of 7 and
8. (Before and after baptism.) He immediately got a cold look on his
face and shut off completely. He told me right then that he was unable
to help me any further and that he wouldn't be able to speak to me again
until I got professional help. I would try and call him at home and he
would refuse my calls. (My calls were always a priority before.) I felt
abandoned again. I felt alone and discarded and violated. I had shared
things with this Bishop that I hadn't shared with anyone and he just
plain didn't care anymore. I was suicidal. I didn't believe that God
could or would love me if His Bishop couldn't love and accept me. I
truly believed that with all of my heart.

In the meantime, my husband watched me struggle through a suicide attempt
and loss of faith in my Church and myself. It was at this time that the
old bishop was replaced by a new one and I felt encouraged to seek his
help. Perhaps things would be different. Well, they weren't. Not even
close. I felt disfellowshipped. We had no home teachers, no visiting
teachers. And since we had no family around us (because they were all in
Utah) I felt so alone.

My husband and I became disillusioned with what we had been reading and
the experiences we had gone through. We wrote the bishop a letter asking
that our names be removed from the records of the church. We never heard
back from him. After several attempts and 4 letters later, (he said he
had 'lost' the letters) we received a plain white piece of paper (with no
letterhead) from the clerk in our ward telling us that we were no longer
members. That didn't satisfy me because ANYONE could have written that!
I mean, this was not even an official document! We spent the next few
years wondering if we were even members or not.

We have suffered so much. I feel I've lost my identity, my God, my
legacy, my heritage, my family's respect, etc. I wrote to my Grandpa on
April 23, 1993 telling him of my decision to leave the church and why.
(I left out the sexual abuse parts.) My grandfather was the only person
in my life that I felt loved me unconditionally. He never responded to
my letter. When we would talk by telephone, it was as if my letter never
was sent. I still felt the love and joy in his voice when he would hear
mine. I asked him at one point if he read the letter, and he told me he
did, but that's all that was said. I knew he was disappointed. He told
me that he knew I'd come back when I figured things out. Three months to
the day I sent that letter (June 23, 1993) my grandpa died. So did a
major part of me. I flew back to Utah for the funeral. My Grandmother
(even though she knew I had left the church) asked me to speak. I did.
It was hard, but so joyous to be able to share my thoughts and feelings
about my beloved friend, mentor, father, grandfather. The only rough
spot was my Grandmother telling me that my grandpa was disappointed with
my decision to leave the church and felt that I had turned my back on the
Lord. This made me angry. I never turned my back on the Lord. (Did I?)
Wasn't he the one who turned his back on ME? What my Grandmother said
to me hurt me more than if she had slapped me as hard as she could.

So now I am back to here. Here and now. I don't consider myself a
Mormon. I am learning what it's like to be on the outside looking in.
(Because sometimes I still crave the fellowship I had in Utah as a
teenager.) I miss my Grandfather giving me a "Father's Blessing" when I
was going through a rough time or ill. But I still have the shame. I
still carry the burden of what happened in those secret times in the
chapel and the sunday school room in Nephi, Utah with a Man of God. I
still, even though I am an adult, cannot put it into a perspective that I
can deal with. I have sought secular counseling and have been able to
put the abuse that my uncles heaped on me into their proper place and go
on. And for that I am both proud and thankful. But this.... this is
too big for me to deal with alone. And I don't know how to resolve it.

I realize that Life is a continual process. That maybe someday I will be
free. Maybe I will have to die before that takes place. I hope not. In
the meantime, I feel like I'm carrying around poison.

That's it. I don't know what else to add. This is a very long letter,
but as you can see from reading it, a few sentences wouldn't have helped
me or anyone else understand the situation.

I just hope that you can make sense of it.

Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share this. I think the only
way that justice can be done (if there is such a thing) and the only way
I can feel like my life has been worth something at all is if my story
can help someone else.